Of course, Tom made no mention of what he had hoped to gain from this knowledge. He had vaguely thought that he might get some benefit from following the vicar, perhaps some money, but he would have to be clever he had thought, the vicar being an educated man and everything, he would have had to prove what he knew, otherwise who would believe him?
Jack thought about the boy’s words. He had not trusted the vicar, but neither had he suspected the truth. It made him feel a little better, not much, but offered some small justification for his terrible deed.
‘I think it best, Tom, that we do not talk about these matters again. I will help you all that I can, but speak no more of this, eh?’
The farrier had done his work and the bill paid, the two set off again, following the road south and east towards the coast and Portsmouth. Each night Tom would repeat his work of taking care of the horses, cleaning Jack’s cloak, boots and breeches, before settling down to sleep. Each morning he woke him with a modest meal. Smoked fish, or a bowl of bran and warm milk, or toasted bread, whatever Tom could arrange from the kitchen.
As they rode, they passed the occasional traveller, or mail-coach, and would pull off the track to give it room as it rattled by; horses sweating, and the coachman trumpeting a warning, as the iron-rimmed wheels clattered, throwing up dust and stones.
They reached Portsdown Hill on the fifth day, by now very weary. With the aid of a new telescope, Jack could see Portsmouth dockyard with a forest of masts and halted to wonder at his future. The sight burst upon him, dazzling his sight, firing his imagination.
‘Good heavens, Tom. Will you take a look.’ His heart seemed to fill.
Full before them lay the broad bosom of the ocean covered with ships. The Channel Fleet, with more than thirty sail of the line. Stately three-decked warships lay in the harbour; a couple of frigates too. Small boats, like water beetles, crawling slowly between them and the shore. Sloops, brigs, schooners, and cutters, extending all along the vast anchorage of Spithead, reaching almost to St. Helens where the light squadron, ready for sail, lay at single anchor with sails unfurled.
Over to the right was Southampton Water, running along the banks of Hampshire and beyond, to the New Forest. At the extremity of his vision he believed he could see the Needles rocks and the Isle of Wight, the garden of England, glowing in pastoral beauty, with its hills, vales, its woods, its sparkling villages and spires and the town of Ryde rising Venus-like from the sea.
Within weeks, he thought, I must be on one of those ships, bound where? What lies ahead, fortune and adventure, or disgrace and death? They rode on through the peninsular, along London Road, through the villages of Hilsea and Fratton, then Portchester Castle and the garrison of Portsmouth, with its regular lines and fortifications, its bridges and draw-bridges, scarps and counter-scarps, bastions and basins, curtains, dykes and glacis, eventually finding St Nicolas Street and Fourhouse Barracks.
The barracks was bustling with activity. There were men everywhere; all oblivious to the dusty man and a ragged looking boy on two dishevelled horses. A squad of new men were at drill under the orders of a corporal, doing his best to instil some order into their movements.
Jack stopped a sergeant and asked for some direction. The man glanced at him, and with a grunt that could have been an oath, pointed at a building to his right. Jack dismounted.
‘Wait for me here.’ He instructed Tom and took out a leather pouch from his bag.
A young marine private was standing guard at the door and stood smartly to attention at Jack’s arrival. ‘I am to report to a Major Ross.’ He said.
‘He’s in there... sir.’ The young soldier answered, quickly realising that he was dealing with a gentleman. ‘But he is busy this morning.’ He added with a note of caution.
Jack smiled and walked through the door, into a small dim room, lit by a solitary window set high in the wall. It smelt musty, the walls of a course brick, white-washed. A pair of tables set facing each other, on which piles of paper were stacked in untidy columns.
The man at the table did not look up at Jack’s entrance. ‘Second Lieutenant John Vizzard reporting, Major Ross.’ Jack felt unsure of himself. He was not yet in uniform and his commission was dated as recently as Wednesday 1st August 1786. He had not used his rank before.
Ross’s head came up slowly and he pushed to one side the sheaf of papers he had been studying. ‘Are you now, boy?’ Jack bristled inwardly. This was a term to which he was not accustomed. He did not welcome it.
Major Robert Ross was a man of about 45 years, with a sallow, anaemic expression and dark, cold eyes. His smile was thin and unconvincing. He was dressed in full uniform coat, his epaulettes of faded gold appearing heavy on his shoulders. His face, veined and waxy, offered no hint of welcome.
‘Your first lesson then laddie, is to understand that I am to be your commanding officer, and you will at all times address me as sir.’
Jack stiffened and knew instinctively that this officer and he were not destined to enjoy an amicable relationship.
‘Yes, sir.’ He said, simply.
Ross was a Scot and a man who had seen hard service in Canada and America. He had been present at the siege of Louisburg and at the capture of Quebec. He was already a Captain at the time of Bunker Hill in June 1775. A censorious, self-important man, he was without humour.
Ross looked Jack up and down. ‘I have received orders about you. An Oxford man.’ Ross sneered derisively. It was not intended to compliment. ‘The classics and jurisprudence too.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Jack added quickly.
‘I have no time for varsity men, Vizzard. Parsimonious, blood-sucking, self-serving, parasites all.’ Ross growled. ‘You are to be attached to er... the 55th Company. You will see the Q. M. and draw what uniforms and equipment ye lack, and I suggest you do so quickly, boy. Next time I see you, I wish to see you properly attired, Mister Vizzard, and in some semblance of a King’s officer and not some Piccadilly Dandy! Lieutenant Long is my adjutant; he will be your senior, but he has not yet reported for duty. I suggest you find Sergeant Packer and he will see to your needs.’
He glared at Jack and continued. ‘Now, as to training I will see you drill tomorrow and then I will see all officers, with companies, on Friday for musketry. If you satisfy my adjutant as to your fitness, I’ll be surprised. Thank you, Mister Vizzard.’ The last remark was clearly a dismissal as Ross turned his attention back to his papers.
‘May I raise a matter, sir?’ Jack waited until Ross raised his head. ‘I have with me a servant, a boy of some fifteen years, who wishes to serve with me. I thought perhaps that would be possible?’
‘Bit young for the service...very well, find a recruiting sergeant and have him sworn in, if you must.’ Ross returned to his lists.
The meeting over, Jack turned on his heel and walked out. He looked at the dark, cloudy sky and thought that there might be a storm brewing.
Sergeant Joseph Packer was outside talking to the sentry when he left Ross’s office.
‘Good morning, sir. Mister Vizzard I understand?’ The sergeant’s head was level with Jack’s shoulder, his eyes studying Jack obtrusively, causing a moment of discomfort.
‘Indeed it is sergeant, and you are?’ Jack looked at a smartly dressed marine, wearing three broad stripes on his arms.
‘Joseph Packer. I am appointed your sergeant, sir.’ Seeing Jack’s look of surprise he went on. ‘I found out about you from your servant, sir. Lieutenant Long mentioned also how we was to have a new officer next month.’
Jack offered a bland reply explaining only that his personal affairs had permitted him to join the division earlier than expected.
Joseph Packer smiled, taking in the charm that this new officer used so readily, making the assumption that he had bidden farewell to a lady and was anxious to make a new life, away from the women of London society. He had seen that before.
‘Firstly, sir, I will escort you around the barracks, just so you can get familiar
with things, you will need to know your way around the barracks, sir. Then I’ll show you to your quarters. My corporal is taking care of your servant. We need some youngsters in the corps. He will be in uniform afore you see him again.’ The man grinned.
Sergeant Packer explained that the marine barracks had been converted from the King’s Cooperage nearly twenty years before, with one of the principal reasons being to keep the daily roll call parades separate from the civilian population of the town.
‘Avoids trouble with the good citizens of the town, and keeps the men out of the taverns,’ was his simple explanation.
He showed Jack some of the barrack rooms, forty-five of them, each accommodating twelve men, sharing six beds. Two large lockers were provided in each room for the men’s personal kit. The rooms were neat and ordered, as though the builders had just finished work.
Jack learned that he was to share with another subaltern one of eight rooms set aside for officers, and thus save the expense of lodging in the town. He was surprised to note that already his bags were in his room, obviously taken there during his meeting with Major Ross.
It differed little from the barrack rooms, save that there were only two beds and the space between them was separated by a pair of desks, placed back to back. Two marble washstands with plain white china bowls and pitchers stood beneath the window. A locker would accommodate his uniforms and clothing, while an empty trunk, obviously the property of a former occupant, rested at the foot of the bed. The name of the owner, painted in a crude stencil, had been thinly over-painted with his own name and rank. Seeing it before him, in thick letters, gave him a curious sensation of position, of some status that he had not felt before.
‘I took the liberty of having your things brought here, sir, while you were busy with Major Ross. Not as grand as you may ‘ave been used to I daresay, but as good as you will have anywhere in the corps, beggin’ your pardon, sir.’
He recalled the cramped room at Oriel, filled with books and damp clothes, also shared with other men, and considered this room palatial.
‘It will do me very well sergeant, very well indeed.’
On returning to the quadrangle Packer escorted him along a colonnade running along three sides of the barracks, used for the men to be drawn up for review in wet weather. The Quarter Master had his stores over the main gate, and Jack signed for two uniform coats, belts, two hats, field kit and for some additional personal equipment not purchased in London following his interview at The Admiralty. He had purchased a sword and a pair of pistols, but had brought with him his own musket, an expensive weapon from one of the new manufactories in Birmingham.
Packer then took him to the officer’s mess, where he was promptly charged a guinea as an entry fee.
‘It will cost you ten shillings a week to mess here, sir!’ Packer grinned broadly. ‘I’ll wager the grub is better in the sergeant’s mess an’ all, sir.’
Jack warmed to this man, and returned the smile.
‘Then perhaps I should seek an invitation to your mess, sergeant!’
‘That would not be the thing, sir. They call that ‘un-officer-like’ behaviour, and you wouldn’t want to be accused of that, now would you, sir. Leastwise, not just as you are recently joined in the Corps, sir.’
‘Indeed not sergeant - that would not do at all.’ He replied, returning a friendly smile. Some of the anxiety he had felt on arriving at the barracks seemed to fall away.
He felt that he now had a new home.
16
Training
The sergeant worked Jack hard, exhorting him to load and fire ever more quickly, more used to training recruits in the multiple tasks involved in preparing a musket for firing.
‘Very good, Mister Vizzard, very good, sir. That is fast shooting. A bit more work and you will get it to three balls a minute, and that’s as fast as any man in the garrison, an’ faster than most!’ He did not mention that Jack’s shooting was by far the most accurate he had seen from any officer in many years.
‘Thank you for that, Mister Packer, I have had little reason to practice lately, but I think that is enough for the day. How is young Tom faring? Do you think he will do?’
‘Well enough sir, well enough. He seems a good lad, had one or two scrapes with some of the old hands mind, but e’ll come through right enough. Seems to think a lot of you, so I ‘ere.’ There had been some speculation in the mess last night about the new officer, but Packer had decided to reserve opinion on the man until he knew more.
Joe Packer was from a village near Colchester, in Essex, and had joined the Corps at Chatham. He was a fit, strong man, now some thirty years of age. Twelve years of service in the Corps had made him hard. He was stocky, of medium height and with a back as straight as the ramrod slung beneath his musket. White breeches, always spotlessly clean, just touched his black bootees, always shining. White pipe-clayed cross belts shone against the red of his uniform coat taut over his large chest. He kept his hair cut unfashionably short, down to the very scalp of his large, rounded head. Brown eyes stared unblinkingly when he was angered. He had a deep, throaty laugh when amused, and often, his mouth formed a bemused half grin, which some officers found disconcerting and impertinent. The face surrounding that mouth was deep brown, stained by the sun as he had returned from India less than six months ago and, with much haste, had been returned to barracks to help train new recruits. He was tough, had survived any number of fights, many in the King’s service and some for his own reasons, and had long ago earned the respect of his men.
He regarded Mister Vizzard with a critical eye. He had met very few officers that he liked. He respected some, but liked, no. Most were toffs or drunkards, some were gentlemen of course. Some he had known had guts and courage aplenty, and others were plain cowards. He had shot one in India, for running from a fight and leaving the men. Put a ball through his brain from ten paces. Bone and brains had spattered over a young private, who was unable to speak for many days. Then he was fighting for his very life, with bayonet, and the butt of his musket, his bare knuckles and boots, too bloody and exhausted to care. After that fight, no officer spoke against him. He grimaced at the memory. Bastard had upset the lads before he ran.
This one though, well he was different. Treated the men as men and not vermin or scum; at least he was not as imperious as some of the buggers. That bastard Ross for example, he wouldn’t approve; too bleedin’ arrogant and self-minded. Packer had no love for Major Ross. The man had guts once, but now, well he was just a bully, ordering floggings for even petty offences. Looking at the new officer he thought, those two will cross swords ere long, I shouldn’t wonder.
‘You received any orders yet, sir?’ Ordinarily Joe Packer would not have had the temerity to ask an officer that, but he felt comfortable with this one; familiar Ross would call it.
‘Not as yet, sergeant. Why the interest?’ Jack had been at Portsmouth for a fortnight and so far had received no indication as to what duty might be given to the company.
As a sergeant, Packer could be detached with a small squad to a sloop or smaller frigate, and he did not desire that, never liked being under the orders of snobbish naval officers.
Packer lowered his voice. ‘I do ‘ere tell that we might be off on a long cruise afore Christmas sir, but nobody’s saying nothing. Mister Long’s been asked to ‘elp with a gang tomorrer. They need more men for some ships they say. Now, that be a bit strange to my thinkin’. ‘Tisn’t like we have a war to fight.’
That was true. Jack had heard mention in the mess of an important expedition being organized by the Admiralty, for which a large contingent of marines was to be required. He had nothing but the most vague suggestions about such an expedition. Some officers speculated on the possibility of an expedition to the West Indies, others to The Cape. A few thought that a detachment was to go to India. He thought that an interesting possibility.
‘I will be sure to let you know, Mister Packer, just as soon as Major Ross takes me into his
confidence.’ His sardonic smile was not lost on the hardened soldier before him. Jack handed the musket back to the sergeant, silently pleased with his showing in front of this experienced man.
He returned to the mess feeling hungry. It was a large room, with high ceilings, painted in a stark whitewash. Portraits of naval officers, former colonels and nearly forgotten sea battles decorated the walls. Card tables covered in green baize, formed a neat row along one side, with a collection of chairs at one end, gathered around a long, well-polished mahogany table. A fire smoked lazily in the hearth, sending small trails of grey smoke into the room, and an orderly disappeared through a door leading to a kitchen. Only one other officer was there, one that he did not recognise. The fair-haired young man sat at a bureau by a window, writing slowly, frequently consulting some large book by his side.
He looked around for a servant, finding none he made his way to a table and poured himself a glass of Madeira from a decanter. The young officer had not noticed him enter, so intent on his work was he, so he called across to him. ‘Would you care to join me in a glass before lunch?’ At that the man’s head came up in acknowledgement and he looked at Jack.
‘No thanks, I don’t drink actually.’ He smiled, apologetically almost.
Jack walked across to the table at which the other officer was working. Extending his hand, he said, ‘Vizzard, Jack Vizzard.’ He thought he had better introduce himself.
‘Dawes, William Dawes.’ The young lieutenant answered, standing up and accepting the hand. ‘Delighted to meet you, I am sure. Were you the chap with the musket?’
Jack nodded as he swallowed the wine.
‘I assumed so. You have powder burns on your face.’
At that he laughed nervously, almost a girlish laugh and Jack broke into laughter too. ‘Yes, Sergeant Packer was putting me through some drill. Major Ross feels that I should improve my eye, although he has yet to see me use the damn thing.’
‘He is useful with a sword I am told, but not so clever with fire-arms, it is said.’ His new companion returned to his chair. ‘Whereas I am hopeless with either.’
First Fleet Page 11
